For Sylvia Plath, existence was a fig tree and each possible life she could live – the happily- married one, the successful-poet one – was this sweet juicy fig,
but she couldn’t get to taste the sweet juicy figs and so they just rotted right in front of her.
It can drive you insane, thinking of all the other lives we don’t live.
For instance, in most of my lives I am not standing at this podium talking to you about success...
In most lives I am not an Olympic gold medallist.” She remembered something Mrs Elm had told her in the Midnight Library.
“You see, doing one thing differently is very often the same as doing everything differently.
Actions can’t be reversed within a lifetime, however much we try...” People were listening now.
They clearly needed a Mrs Elm in their lives. “The only way to learn is to live.”
And she went on in this manner for another twenty minutes, remembering as much as possible of what Mrs Elm had told her,
and then she looked down at her hands, glowing white from the light of the lectern.
As she absorbed the sight of a raised, thin pink line of flesh, she knew the scar was self-inflicted, and it put her off her flow.
Or rather, put her into a new one. “And... and the thing is... the thing is...
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색